


Getting Away with Murder

by whatever_forever



Category: BioShock
Genre: Fluff, M/M, gay! gay, vintage gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatever_forever/pseuds/whatever_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Ryan is a hermit, and he knows it. Finally being in the clear after spending ten years in witness protection because of his  father should have been a breath of fresh air, but all he uses his newfound freedom for is going to the movies. And yet, that's enough for him to meet a messy haired man with a very nice voice . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Ryan

**Author's Note:**

> Jatlas surface au where fontaine and atlas are two different people and jack and atlas live in nyc \  
> based off the prompt “i forgot my umbrella and you offered to walk me home in the rain and i thought this would be the beginning of a cute love story but you’re really shit at this oh my god my shoulder is so wet, hold the damn thing properly wth man” au from tumblr user homohighness  
> updates usually happen on the weekends when I have the time, so checking back on Mondays isn't a bad idea.  
> first chapter is pure fluff, darkness and terrible horrors to follow don't worry

Jack smiled weakly, straightening out his sweater while shoving another fistful of popcorn in his mouth. Beads of sweat prickled up his neck and he resolved to remove the heavy garment entirely, trying his best not to block anyone’s view of the theatre screen. Going to the movies was always a fun Saturday activity, even if his reclusive behavior entailed attending alone. There wasn’t much to do in such stormy weather anyway. He was trying really, really hard to enjoy himself.  
The woman on the screen, draped in white fabric and pearls, gasped. The man on the screen, cloaked and besuited, sneered. A baby in the theatre started to cry. Jack closed his eyes. He didn’t want to go home. His apartment was empty and cold, and even when he would sink deep into his bed at night, he always felt distant and separated from the place altogether.  
The screen faded to black, and the light from the cinema projector darkened as the credits rolled.Jack yawned, put his sweater back on, and dug around in his pocket, hoping to find some money for the metro fare. Finding only a few pennies and a roll of camera film, he slumped back down into his seat. Good job, stupid, you blew your pocket change on popcorn. A nice long walk home, it was. Not to mention the time on his watch read 6:37 PM, which, in accordance with the winter days, meant it would be dark. And, taking New York City into consideration, the sidewalks would be crowded.  
He hadn’t realized how much time it had taken to get his bearings, and now there was only two other people left in the theatre: a frail old woman who was putting her mass collection of sweaters back on, and a tall, dark haired man wearing slacks and a pair of suspenders. Jack could only see the back of his head, but his hair was messy, and he seemed to be interested in something on his lap. The man toyed with his mystery object, jerking his hands around rather flippantly, with a grunt of frustration or two thrown in for good measure. Jack decided not to wait around to see what it was. He left the theatre with the hope that maybe he’d find some loose change in the lobby.  
No such luck. He was about to push the glass doors open and walk onto the city street when a familiar angry noise startled him. He turned around. The same messy haired man stood in the middle of the lobby, forcibly twisting his hands around the mystery object, which was, now quite obviously, a small yellow umbrella. He was getting quite enraged at the thing. Jack stared. Not an ordinary sight.  
Well, nothing about the man seemed ordinary at all. His eyes were as bright as the rest of his face was somber, a thin pair of lips rested below a sharply angled nose. His eyes were the shape of almonds, Jack thought. And colored sea blue. The man wiped the dust off his slacks and looked right back at Jack.  
“Would you kindly quit your staring, mmm? Considered very rude, that is.”  
Jack jerked out of his thoughts, his head feeling very shaken up.  
“Sorry! Very sorry.” He turned to go, until he heard the man’s voice once again.  
“Don’t sweat it. Uh, maybe could you give me a hand here? I can’t get this umbrella up, and last time I went out in the rain I caught the flu. Not looking for a week like that again.”  
Jack nodded, feeling the burn of humiliation up his neck. Still, the man didn’t seem very hostile anymore. He made his way over, deciding to help the man as best he could.  
He racked his brain for something nice to say, something conversational. Getting close to that man’s hair was something else altogether. It even smelled good. It smelled like the ocean.  
“Sure wish I had an umbrella like this one. I hate getting wet, too.” He would have to work on his pickup lines.  
The man raised an eyebrow. “You walking home, too?”  
Jack nodded.  
“Well, I’ll make you a deal. Fix my piece of shit, and I’ll use it to get you back dry.”  
Jack went to work. He considered himself quite the little mechanic hacker. All he had to do was unscrew the base and pop a few screws back into place.  
As he excitedly raised the umbrella up and down, the man clapped Jack on the back.  
“Well, look at you, stranger! Handy fellow, yeah?” Jack was granted a very hearty handshake and a toothy smile. “What’s your name?”  
“Jack Ryan,” he said, not being able to withhold a smile in return.  
“Jack Ryan. Is that a first and a last, or some kind of conjoined name there?”  
“Call me Jack,” he answered quickly. “What’s yours?”  
The man grinned. “C’mon.”  
Jack found himself being pulled by the arm out the door and onto the busy city street, the rain splattering on his head at a velocity before unknown to man.  
“What happened to keeping me dry?” Jack yelled to his companion.  
“Sorry!” was the follow-up shout, and the umbrella wobbled over to Jack’s head. “Well, we’re both pretty wet now, despite everything.”  
Jack laughed, and in response, the man slung his arm over Jack’s sweater-clad shoulder.  
“Maybe you could help me steady it?”  
Jack obliged, placing his hand above his new friend’s, keeping the umbrella balanced between them. It still wavered in the man’s clumsy grip, but Jack didn’t mind. The rain felt gentler now, anyway.  
“Just tell me which way to go,” the man calmly directed.  
“West of here, a bit up a ways, um- yes that’s it,” Jack said as they traveled up the street. He decided that his new friend was quite possibly the warmest person in the world, as he subconsciously decided that he didn’t want to leave him.  
There was his warm energy, and the electric blue of his eyes that was reminiscent of lights in dark waters. And his voice. His clear, directive voice.  
“So, Mr. Ryan, how do you make your living?” the man was grinning, almost looking dopey. All Jack could do was flinch instinctively at the name. The man's face grew heavy with concern. "Hey, are you alright? I'm sorry, kid, did I-" "Yes. I'm fine. Just, uh, please don't call me that." The man relaxed. "Okay. So, oh great Jack, fixer of umbrellas, what do you do on the regular?" Jack snorted, easing back into the comfort of his friend's good nature. “Oh, God, it’s got nothing to do with fixing anything. I work at a grocery store.”  
“On the corner of fifth and seventh?”  
“That’s the one. I’m, um, studying to be a teacher though.”  
“Are you?”  
“Yeah, grammar school, probably.”  
“Hmm. I guess you like kids?”  
“Yes, very much. They’re quite nicer than adults.”  
The man grinned. “Well, I sure don’t like them.”  
Jack was contented to keep the easy conversation. Really, he felt happy, chatting with the man. He became very aware of how close they were to his apartment. He didn’t want their time to end.  
“Why’s that?”  
“Oh, well. They’re very inconsiderate, for one. Usually very loud, too.”  
“Inconsiderate?”  
“Yes.”  
“You’re talking about children!”  
“I am.”  
Jack tsked under his breath.  
The man chuckled. “Maybe you could get me around to your way of thinking,” he said.  
They stopped. Jack turned to face him. He bit his lip. “Maybe I could.”  
They were right in front of Jack’s apartment. They had so little time left together, unless . . .  
“Would you kindly hold your arm out, just for a moment?”  
Jack complied. The man took a pen out of his shirt pocket and scrawled ink across the skin of his forearm.  
“Big red apartment complex on Eve Street, Second floor, Number 48,” Jack read aloud. “What’s this?”  
“My address, sort of. Show up sometime, please do.”  
Jack grinned widely, the man’s air rubbing off on him. “I will.”  
The man smiled at him, all straight teeth and creased lines. He turned to walk away, and then seemed to have a second thought. He swiveled back around.  
“Oh, by the way, kid, my name’s Atlas.”  
He grabbed Jack by the shoulders and pressed their lips together.  
There was everything warm and fizzing in their compiled energy, but it lasted only for a few seconds. And Atlas was running back down the street, yellow poofy umbrella wobbling, and he shouted to Jack.  
“Just to make sure you don’t forget me!”


	2. The Stars Up Above

Atlas’s apartment wasn’t hard to find. Jack had lived in the city for years, and despite keeping a low profile for his own sake, he had gotten to know his part of Manhattan well. The difficult thing was working up the nerve to go.

There was quite a bit of fear in the mix as well. Jack wasn’t exactly the most outgoing man on his block. The thought of his tall dark acquaintance sent butterflies straight down to his stomach. Or maybe it was more like a bunch of big sinking rocks. He was a busy person, besides. Twenty four years old and finishing up college while working full time wasn’t easy. He would’ve liked to have graduated two years earlier, but there had been setbacks.

So, Jack resolved, he wouldn’t ever go to see Atlas. He had plenty on his plate, he didn’t need some umbrella-toting smooth-talking stranger on his mind. And he wasn’t lonely, not at all! He only needed himself for company. His apartment was just fine, sure it seemed barren at times, with little furniture or decoration other than his bed, kitchen table, and a few potted plants, but it was his space, and only his. He didn’t have to live with Fontaine or his father or-

Jack felt sick sitting in his own bedroom. It was so late in the night, but he couldn’t sleep. He rarely ever did. He’d been thinking too much again. There was really only one truth, a subtle, plain truth, but a strong and clear one nonetheless.

The idea of never seeing Atlas again made him miserable.

 

The next day, he called the number for Atlas’s apartment building. His hands shook. The operator connected him once he gave Atlas’s name and address. He sat down on his bed. His knocking knees were going to topple him over.

“Who’s this?” an introductionless voice asked, against what sounded like someone scraping their shoes in the background. Altas sounded different on the phone- more settled, as if he could blend right into the cracking and dissolving of the phone line noise.

Jack swallowed. “It’s Jack. From the other night.”

“Jack Ryan!” came the reply, “Well, Jack,  I,” and then there was a bit of a distant laugh, one that seemed sort of relieved, “I thought you’d never.”

Jack was smiling despite himself. The corners of his mouth were sore. He swung his legs over the side of his bed. “I wanted to take you up on your ‘dropping by’ offer, if that’s alright. Or you could come over here. I don’t doubt you know where I live.”

More of the same deep, resounding laughter followed. “You can bet on it, kid. I’ll tell you something; my door’s unlocked. You still know which number I’m at?”

The ink hadn’t washed off. Jack wouldn’t have forgotten anyway.

“Yes. Should I come now?”

“Now is good.”

Jack was almost giggling. “Now’s the best!”

He immediately felt stupid, but Atlas seemed to think something else of him.

“Now is number one, kid. See you then.”

And Jack hung up before he could do anything else regrettable.

  


Jack knocked on the tall light wooden door tentatively. The nervousness was back, but so was a sort of eagerness. Well, not quite eagerness- excitement, he thought. He’d had so little reason to divulge from fear into excitement in the past few years. Maybe that made Atlas a blessing.

Well, there was his blessing, answering the door, suspenders pulled tight, hair actually combed, a trail of smoke leaking from the cigarette between his lips. The papery tube jumped at Jack.The smoke smothered his face, and he choked up a tiny bit before a small involuntary cough saved him. The smell of the smoke painted a dense picture in his mind’s-eye, the curves and ridges of sharp pointed metal, thick and square, pointed in some places and rounded in others. He remembered his father’s golf club like it was only yesterday he’d felt its hard edge on his bones.

“Come in, kid.” Atlas removed the cigarette and blew the smoke down. It scraped the floor and rose to the hallway ceiling

“Oh. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” said Jack, brushing away his obtrusive thinking as best he could. The things his father used to smoke were much thicker and stinkier, anyway.

“You didn’t do a thing,” Atlas reassured him, supplying a warm smile. Jack remembered how those lips had felt pressed against his own.

And the door was opened wider. An invitation.

Atlas’s apartment was painted a dark red, but was lit brightly by the large windows set perpendicular to each other.The floor was covered in scuff marks and the paint was chipped and faded. Easily visible in the center of the living room sat an overstuffed brown armchair, covered in hastily sewn brown patches, next to a small coffee table. There was a little radio positioned in the center of the table, which was softly playing song with a fast-paced melody. A bookshelf, which looked like it was about to collapse in on itself, was pushed in the back corner.

“It’s not really much, I suppose,” Atlas said, arms crossed over his chest. “I make an effort to keep it clean. Sometimes.”

Jack relaxed against Atlas. “It’s so _warm_.”

“Er- is it? Oh, I’m sorry about-”

“No! It’s quite pleasant.” It’s warm like you, his mouth itched to form the words. Warm like when you put your arm around me. Warm like your conversation. Warm like when you kissed me. It’s so _warm_.

The radio chimed from the middle of the room. The song had changed, and a smooth vocal chorus wailed in.

_“Each night I ask the stars up above_

_Why must I be a teenager in love?”_

Atlas laughed at the words. “Oh, Jack. Teenagers! Those were the days, huh?”

No, they weren’t. Jack didn’t ever get to be a teenager. He grew to be an adolescent, sure, and he grew past that stage. He had only been a shell of a person for so long. And even now that he was out from under his father’s influence, everything reminded him of his past.

Jack settled the score with himself right then and there. He had somehow, by some measure gotten himself into this lovely man’s apartment, and boy howdy did Atlas seem interested. If Andrew Ryan wanted to ruin this for him, he’d have to come out of hiding and shoot Jack in the face.

He was drawn, of all things, to the bookshelf. He felt curious about what sort of things Atlas would read, but he found it stocked with mostly encyclopedias and scientific texts, marked with titles such as “The Proper Administration of Sedatives Volume IV” and “A Brief Summary of the History of Genetic Modification.”. There were also a few records on the shelf, their labels written in illegible print. Jack whistled along with the music. The song had changed, and the tune didn’t seem familiar to Jack, but the singer’s voice was upbeat and friendly, accompanied by quickly-plunked out piano notes.

He hadn’t realized it, but Atlas was holding his hand.

Jack grinned like a fool. He wasn’t nervous at all, not now, and maybe not ever again.

“Let’s dance like the teenagers, Atlas.”

The other man laughed, and the room was full.

But they didn’t dance like any old teenagers. They were sort of a cluttered mess in themselves, just hands holding arms and toes squashed by heels, and laughter, brilliant and loud.

“You’re really something else at this, Jack.”

“Oh? Is that good or bad?”

“Kid, you’re so bad it’s good!”

Jack didn’t wait any longer. He threw his hands around Atlas’s neck and went for a reprisal of the night they met.

The pressure Atlas put on him when their lips met was the real something else. The music was slower now, and there was only their enclosed space, and Jack was melting in heat.

Once they had finally pulled away, Jack looked Atlas right in the eye and told him the truth.

“You always taste sort of salty.”

Altas chuckled. “Well, I work in the ports, kid.”

Jack smiled, his eyes downcast, blushing up a fire.

 

Somehow, they ended up in Atlas’s bedroom, furnished only by a record player, a trundle bed smothered in heavy wool blankets, and a shut closet. They sat on the bed together, and Jack listened as Atlas talked. He learned that most of the books on the bookshelf belonged to Atlas’s “friend of sorts,” who was called Brigid Tenenbaum. Jack didn’t press any further.

They finished chatting with more kissing, which neither of the pair could seem to get enough of.

“Jack Ryan,” Atlas whispered.

Jack blinked, and felt his eyes growing wide. He said the only thing he could think to say.

“When can I see you again?”

 

 


	3. Red Carnations.

 

Jack’s body was limp. The clock on his bedroom wall told him that it was half past midnight. He lay quietly in his bed, staring at his ceiling fan as it spun in lazy circles. Despite the dry winter air, he’d found himself sweating. He dug his nails into his side with one hand, and tapped his skull with his other. He usually didn’t get to sleep until around 3 AM.

Jack attempted to soothe himself by thinking about Atlas. His memory was, all told, much shoddier than the standard fare. And yet, he still felt a strong hand holding on tight to his own. He could almost replicate the same warmth around himself. He nearly felt the exact pressure on his lips that Atlas had put there.

He sunk into the remade heaven of the day before. First the first time, he wasn’t afraid to fall asleep.

And fall asleep he did. He slept for a half hour in perfect contentment, and going undisturbed for so long had never felt so good.

Until, of course, he was disturbed.

In the hallway, the phone was ringing. A long, sharp hook followed Jack into his state of unconsciousness and dragged him out. He was gifted his awareness back. The resounding warble of the phone had him tossing his blankets aside and running his hands through his disheveled hair in a fruitless attempt to flatten it away from his eyes. Still half asleep, he stumbled over to the phone.

He assumed it was Atlas. Who else could it be?

“Hey, honey, it’s one AM y’know. What’s the matter?”

“Honey? That’s touching, Jack, but not exactly the name I’d use when talking to my father.”

The phone fell out of Jack’s hands and collided with the floor in a hollow thud. Jack’s head was too heavy for the muscles in his neck to hold up. He slid against the wall and let the stucco scrape his back.

He heard muffled noises coming from the phone. His hands shaking like trees in a thunderstorm, he leaned over and picked the dreadful thing up.

“How did you find me?”

“Operator, operator!” Andrew Ryan chimed in, his tone revelling in mockery. “Connect me to Jack Wynond, please!” and he chuckled.

Jack had had many names in his twenty four years. He was Jack Ryan until he was eight years old, and then Jack Suchong for a time, taking his adoptive father’s name. Then came Jack Fontaine, for the second shithole he’d been placed in. Wynond was the surname he’d picked for himself, after he turned eighteen and was on his own. He used it until the very point where he’d been told he was in the clear in regards to his father. Then, he reverted back to his original name. Strangely, he’d always missed it. Andrew Ryan seemed to find the whole ordeal very funny.

“It’s been a long time, Jack. And I _have_ missed you.”

Jack was trembling, crumpled into a ball of human putty, all smushed up in the corner of the hall. He felt hot, heavy, scared tears leak from his stinging eyelids.

“I missed you so much, I started feeling bad about what I did.”

Jack made a startled noise then, reminded of the very worst day of his life. His voice came out choked and scorched.

“Leave me alone.”

“Jack, I feel that I had something stolen from me. I lost my name, I lost my business, and I lost you. These are all things I made for myself, yes? Things I made by myself.”

“No!” Jack shouted, his heart weak and hanging down, suspended by a thread in his chest.

“Is a farmer not entitled to the sweat of his brow, Jack?”

Jack fell over onto his side.

“Is a father not entitled to his son?”

He hit the ground hard. The phone line went dead.

The man who had killed his mother wanted him to come back.

He passed out, and slept deep into the afternoon.

 

Atlas was at the door of his apartment. It was late in the evening. He held something behind his back.

He knocked three times. Jack, his eyes bloodshot and his posture gone straight to hell, staggered over to answer.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It’s me!” came the reply.

Jack almost smiled, but the weight of the words storming through his head sunk him back down. He undid the chain and unlocked the door.

Atlas’s unkempt hair framed a smiling face, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. One look at Jack’s face washed it away and exchanged what was left for concern.

“Are you alright, Jack? You look like you got hit by a train.”

Jack nodded. “I just received some bad news.”

“Should I come back later? I mean, I’ll stay, if you-”

Jack nodded even quicker. “You should come inside.”

Atlas quickly complied, one hand still behind his back, and Jack lead him into the kitchen. He rummaged around in the cabinets for something for them to eat.

“Jack, you don’t have to-”

“You came all this way.” Jack turned and smiled at the man he had come to have a strong affection for. He let out a low whistle at the lack of food in his pantry. “And it won’t be much, sorry. All I have is cereal.”

Atlas raised an eyebrow. “What kind of cereal?”

“Raisin Bran.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Jack grinned sleepily, despite everything. He got out two bowls and poured milk into each one.

“Oh, and I, um, brought you something.” Atlas swiped his arm from around his back. He was holding a fistful of red carnations.

Jack put the milk carton down and hugged Atlas. The dark haired man smelled like rain in the springtime.

“Thank you,” Jack whispered. “Thanks, Atlas.”

Atlas relaxed, his worry still present but, for the moment, soothed. “I got them from Brigid’s sister, Julie. I was helping her out in her flower shop today and I saw them. I thought maybe you’d like them.”

Jack held Atlas tighter. He was quiet for a bit, and then he mumbled, “maybe I should tell you something.”

Atlas frowned. “The bad news?”

Jack pulled himself away and nodded. “I don’t know. I think maybe it should wait.”

He pulled out a chair for Atlas, finished making the cereal and put the flowers in a sodapop bottle.

“I don’t have a vase,” Jack explained at Atlas’s questioning look.

“It’s a pretty bottle, at least.” Atlas said.

Jack laughed and set the cereal bowls down. “It’s classy.”

When they finished eating, and Atlas stopped talking about his day as per Jack’s inquiry, Jack took out a pen and paper and drew up list of things he would have to do after work:

JACK’S TO-DO LIST

 

  1. Grocery shopping. (“Don’t forget that one,” Atlas chimed in, slurping his cereal.)

  2. Meet Atlas at his apartment. (“The city’s huge, Jack! You haven’t even seen the half of it! It’s lovely, really, for the most part. Maybe tomorrow I’ll show you?”)




 

But unbeknownst to Atlas, after he’d left for the night, Jack added a third item.

 

3\. Decide what to do, and quick.

  
Satisfied, Jack turned in early. The blankets felt thicker and hotter than they ever did before. Drenched in a cold sweat, Jack shifted between misery and regret and happiness and gratitude, and the two different sources eventually slunk away from his mind, leaving him to fall into an uneasy slumber.


End file.
